Chapter 10

The morning's fight with Dahl was still on his mind.  Dahl's words, 
"You're so very fuckable," had stung, and Tom had taken refuge in a 
project.  

He put his brush down and examined the half-finished design on the 
bowl in his hands.  For now, he had done enough.  He checked the 
time, calculating how long he should let the paint dry out in its jar.  
He intended that the first and last parts of the pattern would not 
match.

The first bowl, the one Tom had broken on Wolf Raider almost two 
years ago, had the flaw he was hoping to reproduce.  Tom smiled at 
the memory of the interruption that had caused him to leave the 
paint open the first time.  Chakotay had come into their quarters and, 
uncharacteristically, descended on him.  He had pulled Tom up from 
the table where he was working on Chakotay's present, and kissed 
him without preamble.  Tom recalled the intensity of Chakotay's 
desire, and he still did not understand what had prompted the 
interlude.  Still, the slight color difference in the pattern on the bowl 
had always been a reminder of the rare unleashing of passion.

So very fuckable.  He didn't want the taunt to undermine him.  
Ursula's Moon was a long time ago.

Tom felt as if the time on DS9 had re-opened something between him 
and Chakotay, something normal and even friendly.  He wanted to 
make a physical gesture.  Hardship and violence brought them 
together in the Delta Quadrant, and Tom had to admit that drama had 
marked their every encounter since returning home.  At least, that 
had been true until they met on DS9.

This bowl was meant to replace the original one that Tom had 
broken, to symbolize, perhaps, the repair of their relationship, 
whatever it's new course might be.  He hoped it would be based, as it 
had once been, on more than sex.  

The pattern he had chosen for the bowl was different from the old 
one, and he had pulled it from Chakotay's impromptu legend.  He 
hoped including the detail of discoloration would please Chakotay, 
would tell him what Tom was trying to say, even if Tom wasn't sure 
himself exactly what it was.  Tom shook his head at himself, thinking 
that he was indeed getting sentimental, if not spiritual, in his old age.

"Computer, please note time in 35 minutes."  Tom settled himself to 
wait with a padd borrowed from Mack.  It contained a twentieth 
century novel, and by the time the chime sounded, he was deep into 
a dark detective story set in the middle of the century.

When the tone sounded, Tom put down the padd, went back to the 
table, and re-mixed the paint.  Its hue would be slightly darker than 
before, though most would not notice.  He was finished within 
another hour, and he left it to dry while he met Mack for dinner.

*-*

The next morning he pulled his exercise clothes from the refresher 
and went to the mess hall.  He was earlier than usual, and there was 
still a crowd from breakfast.  He noted Dahl sitting alone, in uniform, 
busy with a padd.  Tom took his tray to the opposite corner of the 
room.  They were set to meet in the gym in just over an hour.

Tom ate slowly, reflecting on the sparring match coming up.  It 
would be his last chance at Dahl; Tom was changing ships the next 
day.  He thought about how strange it would be to be only a 
passenger on the Intrepid class ship that would carry him to Earth.  
It would be good to have controls like Voyager's under his hands 
once again, but he doubted they'd let him at the helm.

When he was done, he took his tray to the recycler.  Dahl was gone, 
he noticed.  Tom walked the corridors to loosen up, eventually 
arriving at the gym where he began stretching and warming up in 
earnest.  His opponent was not far behind.

"Round three, Paris?"  There was, Tom decided, a hint of malevolence 
in the Betazoid's eyes, as if the baiting of yesterday had been for the 
sheer pleasure of watching Tom react.

Realization hit Tom.  That was exactly what Dahl was doing.  He'd 
said he was a psychiatrist, hadn't he?  He was either the kind of 
sadistic bastard that should never have passed Starfleet screening, or 
he was pushing Tom on purpose.

It took only the barest second for Tom to come to this conclusion.  
"Let's go, whateverthefuckyournameis."  He grinned at Dahl as they 
stepped on to the mat.  "I have to ask, do you ever forget what your 
name is supposed to be?"

"Never."  Dahl's tone was mocking.  "You want to talk, Runner?  You 
gotten tired of doing your only flying over my shoulder?"

"Certainly tired of that," Tom agreed, not rising to the taunt.  "You 
ready for a final round or not?"

"Final?"

"I change ships tomorrow."

Dahl shrugged. "So, I've won two out of three without fighting 
number three?"  

Tom shook his head.  "Actually, I think I took number three.  Today I 
get a chance to end up even."

"You want to count that tackle yesterday?  Fine."  Dahl's shrug was 
expressively dismissive.  "As you say, let's go."

Their stances immediately changed to a fighting crouch.  They circled 
for a good half minute before Dahl lunged and Tom dodged, adding 
momentum to the small man with a well-placed blow to the middle 
of his back.  Dahl recovered his balance quickly and spun with feint 
that turned into a lunging body blow.  From there it continued, until 
Tom caught Dahl setting up for the throw that had tossed him twice 
before.  This time, thanks to Mack, Tom was ready, and it was the 
Betazoid who landed heavily, sprawling on the mat.

He didn't stay down for long, and he didn't concede defeat.  Dahl's 
eyes, so guarded before, turned even more blank.  His body 
conveyed a new wariness as the two combatants began to circle 
again.

Tom began his second strategy, one of distraction.  If the telepath 
tried to probe his mind, he wouldn't find warp equations or vector 
calculations this time.  Instead, Tom focused on rather vivid sexual 
imagery, all of it centered on Dahl.  Scenarios flashed through his 
mind in a series of pornographic tableaus.  Tom had no idea what 
effect, if any, it would have, but he let his mind run free.  His body, 
left to it's own reflexes, held off several of Dahl's attacks.

Suddenly the images in his mind shifted without his volition.  They 
were still sexual, but in these new ones it was Dahl who controlled 
the scenes.  They were graphic, and they were rough.  Tom looked to 
catch the Betazoid's eye and found him grinning.  Tom gave a thought 
to congratulate his opponent for sheer inventiveness, and then Tom's 
body struck.

A feint to the head caused Dahl to dodge directly into the path of 
Tom's other fist.  The blow landed hard on the small man's ribs, and 
in the moment of shock, Tom lunged and knocked him down, landing 
on top of him.  The angle was right for Tom to pin the slight 
shoulders.

"Why?" he started to ask, but Dahl's legs were free, and he was 
flexible enough to roll up and catch Tom's head between his knees.  
The wrestling that ensued was not clean, and in time the entire mat 
space was ringed with spectators.

Both men were tired, and neither was willing to stop.  Dahl had a 
split lip and Tom a cut above his eye, neither injury purposefully 
given.   Dahl escaped a hold by leaving his gi jacket in Tom's hands, 
and both men staggered to their feet.  Tom threw the jacket aside, 
and they stared at each other, both panting heavily and leaning with 
their hands on their knees.  Neither trusted the other's exhaustion 
enough to look away.

The glare was broken when a security team stepped in between 
them.  The lieutenant commander in charge was a solid woman with 
shoulder length blond hair who carried her authority well.  "I think 
you gentlemen have had enough."

"Looks like the match has been called by the referee, Paris."  Dahl's 
voice was a schoolyard taunt.

"Mr. Paris," the commander's steely voice addressed Tom.  "You are a 
guest of Starfleet, but I can restrict your movements if I choose.  
Lieutenant," she turned toward Dahl, who was retrieving his jacket.  
"Leave our guest alone."

Dahl did not acknowledge the implied order.  "It's just some friendly 
sparring."

She stepped up to him and repeated, "I said, Lieutenant, that you 
were to leave our guest alone."

By the end of her sentence Dahl was at full attention, staring straight 
ahead at nothing.  "Yes. Sir!"

The security chief spoke to the group at large.  "All of you taking bets 
on the outcome of this little match, the bets are off."  A smile 
threatened her mouth at the few grumbling voices.  "As you were."  
She dismissed the crew who had accompanied her, and stepped over 
to Tom.

"Mr. Paris, that's a nasty cut.  May I accompany you to sick bay?"

Tom touched his forehead, then looked at the blood on his fingers.  
"Thanks, but I'll be just fine."

"That's going to scar if you don't run a dermal regenerator over it."

Paris' mouth twisted into the wry grin so familiar to those who knew 
him.  "Won't be my first scar, ma'am.  Besides I'm on my way to 
Starfleet Medical, and I'm sure they'll take care of it.

The security chief managed to convey a shrug without using her 
shoulders.  "Your decision, of course.  May I walk you to your 
quarters, then?"

Tom started to protest, but gave in.  She seemed to want to speak to 
him alone.  He nodded his acquiescence and followed her out of the 
gym, pausing only to grab his boots.  He carried them in one hand, 
and followed her barefoot down the corridor.  To his surprise she did 
not speak, and Tom began to wonder whether she really was simply 
ensuring that he reached his quarters.  At his cabin door he turned to 
her and half-bowed ironically.  "Thanks for seeing me safely home."

Her face did not change its expression.  "May I come in?"

So she did want to talk.  "Of course."  Tom keyed the door and stood 
aside to let her enter.  He followed her in, gestured toward the lone 
chair, and walked over to the small lavatory to look after the cut on 
his head.

She didn't sit immediately.  She stood looking at the painted bowl.  
"Did you do this?"

Tom looked over from dabbing up the blood.  "The replicator throws 
the clay, I'm afraid, but I painted it."

"Nice work."

"Thanks," Tom answered, holding a towel to his head.  "Do sit down."

She took the lone chair, tucked her hair behind her ears, then pushed 
her feet out straight ahead of her.  She leaned back comfortably.  
"Mr. Paris," she began, "how much do you know about the officer 
you've been sparring with for the last three days?"

"Is this official, ma'am?"  The bleeding had stopped, and he took a 
seat on the bed.

"If this were official, we'd probably have this conversation in my 
office."

"Probably."

The security officer sighed.  "Frankly, Mr. Paris, I'm rather curious 
about him, and his interest in you.  You do realize," she asked, "that 
he was toying with you?  He could have incapacitated you at almost 
any point."

Tom's eyebrows expressed surprise.  "It didn't feel that way."

She smiled with some condescension.  "You have some unorthodox 
moves, no doubt learned from species in the Delta Quadrant, but... I 
can tell that hand-to-hand is not your forte." 

Tom sighed.  She was right, of course.  Everything he knew he 
learned from the Academy years ago, and only in insisting his crew 
be prepared for anything had he re-learned old skills and picked up 
a few new ones.

The woman sat up and leaned toward him, repeating her question.  
"What do you know about him?"

He didn't like answering this question, since his answer was so 
unsatisfying even to himself.  "Betazoid.  Definitely 'Fleet.  Probably 
Intelligence.  Look," he continued before she could ask another 
question.  "Why did you say he was toying with me?"

"I sparred with him before you came on board.  He is very, very 
good.  I'm not sure how he managed to fight so consistently below his 
skill level."

Tom's jaw clenched around irritation.  "Well, that's all very  
interesting, but is there anything else I can help you with?"

"No, I suppose not.  I don't like having unknown factors on my ship, 
and I hoped you could help me find out what he was."  She rose to 
leave, and Tom stood also.  "Thank you for your time."  Her 
handshake was firm, but not challenging.

"Anytime," he answered.

He stared at the door a long moment after she left.  Did they think he 
was stupid?  He felt sure that security hadn't interrupted their match 
because they were concerned about betting or about Tom's health.  It 
smelled like a set-up, like a way for Dahl to find out how much Tom 
knew.  On the other hand, she seemed to be exactly what she said: 
curious.  He told himself he was being paranoid, but it wasn't as if he 
didn't have reason.

Tomorrow he would be off this sky bucket and on to the next leg of 
his journey, he hoped without Dahl on board

*--*

It was time.  Dr. Srinak was ready to try a combination of drugs and 
cortical stimulators on Harry.  The doctor expected it to work, but 
Chakotay could tell the Vulcan was not pleased at the solution.  It 
was a brute force approach, and Chakotay knew his CMO preferred 
more elegant solutions for anything less than the craft of surgery.

Chakotay walked into sick bay, wanting to be there when Harry 
woke up.  To his surprise, his chief Engineer was already there.  She 
was seated next to Harry's head and speaking softly, her dark, 
angular features composed in their usual expression of amused 
serenity.

He watched her for a few moments.  If anyone made inroads with 
Harry, it might be this statuesque, unflappable woman.  Banta often 
joined them for a drink, but always only one.  Chakotay suspected 
she left to let the two ex-Voyagers have time alone.  That was her 
strength as an engineer, too -- to do what was necessary, and to do it 
quietly and with no fuss.

Though he couldn't hear what she said, the lilts and clicks of her 
accent reached his ears.  She finished loudly enough for him to make 
out the words, "So there, you big oaf," and to Chakotay's surprise, her 
dark fingers took Harry's nose and shook it.

Banta rose and stood next Chakotay.  "Lieutenant," he greeted her.

"Captain," she answered.  "I'll be back to work now, sir."  With no 
further word she strode gracefully out of the room.  Chakotay 
watched her, wondering what she could have said to Harry.

He stepped over to the biobed where his first officer lay.  Chakotay 
could make little sense of the blinking diagnostics, but there seemed 
to be a change.  He glanced over at the other biobeds for comparison, 
but their occupants had been discharged.  When he looked back at 
Harry, he saw the eyelids flutter, then open all the way.

In a voice croaking from disuse, Harry said.  "Is she gone?"

"Banta?"  Chakotay asked, too surprised to say anything more.  Harry 
nodded stiffly in reply. "Yes," Chakotay told him, "she's gone."

"Whew," Harry sighed.

Chakotay contained his desire to ask what the Chief Engineer had 
said.  "Let me get the doctor."  He stepped away from the biobed and 
into the other room.  Srinak looked up from an experiment.

"Captain," the doctor began, "I regret such invasive procedures, but 
we are ready to wake Commander Kim."

"I don't think you'll have to," Chakotay said.  "He's awake, thanks to 
Lieutenant Banta.

Srinak raised an eyebrow.   "Indeed?"  He gathered up a diagnostic 
device, and strode into the other room.  Chakotay followed, relieved 
to find that Harry was still awake.  The Vulcan ran his instruments 
over Harry's body, then stood back.

"Mr. Kim, you should remain in sick bay one more night, then I will 
release you to quarters if your recovery remains satisfactory.  You 
may have a few moments with him, Captain."  The doctor nodded, 
and left.  Chakotay had a sense that Srinak was pleased.

To Harry he said, "Your timing was good.  The doctor was about to 
pull out the big guns."  Chakotay's tone was one of teasing 
admonishment, but given the news of Srinak's diagnosis of Harry as 
depressed, he was unsure how to speak to him.

Harry only croaked out, "Can you get me some water?"

Chakotay fetched a glass and helped Harry drink.  "Thanks."  Harry's 
voice was more normal for the wetting of his parched throat.

"So tell me, what did Banta say to you?"

Harry tried to chuckle and ended up coughing.  Chakotay got more 
water for him, and waited while he drank it on his own.  "I can't 
believe it," Harry finally said, handing the glass back to his captain.  

"Tell me," Chakotay cajoled.  "Don't make me make it an order."

Harry sighed.  "She said if I woke up she would fuck my lights out, 
and if I was any good, she'd marry me."

Chakotay's eyebrows rose in skeptical disbelief.  "Well.  I hope it'll be 
worth waking up for."

Harry shook his head.  "No, I'll politely decline.  It was the 'or else' 
that got me."

"Or else?"  Chakotay was surprised enough at the carrot Banta had 
offered, and wondered what the stick could be.  

"Or else," Harry began, then swallowed.  "Or if I didn't wake up, she'd 
fuck my lights out anyway here in sick bay in front of you, Srinak, 
and anyone else who cared to watch."

Chakotay could only blink.  "Banta said that?"

"Uh huh."

"That's hard to imagine."  Chakotay shook his head in amazement.  
"No wonder she startled you awake."

"No kidding.  Couldn't let her do that."

Chakotay doubted that Banta would have carried out the threat, but 
admired her effective strategy.  He was suddenly struck by a 
thought.  "You mean you could hear everything we said to you?"

Harry turned his face away.  "Some," he said toward the wall.

Chakotay changed the subject.  "So how do you feel?"

Still looking away, Harry answered, "I hurt, but I'll be fine."

The hurt was visibly more than physical, now that Chakotay knew to 
look, but this was not the time to press it.  Srinak had withdrawn to 
let his captain have a moment alone with Harry, but Chakotay knew 
the CMO well enough to know that he was near, and quietly hovering.  
It was time to let him examine Harry more thoroughly.  It was time 
to go.

"Okay, Harry," he said.  "I'll be around if you want to talk."

Harry turned to face him, and his answering expression was a wan 
half-smile.  "Just send me those status reports, sir, and let me get 
back to work."

"Sure thing, Harry.  See you soon."

Chakotay turned and left Sick Bay, cursing inwardly.  Towards the 
end he'd adopted his old counseling tone from the day's when he'd 
had to fill that role on Voyager.  No, this was not his job, to take care 
of Harry.  He couldn't be his friend, and his captain, and his 
counselor.  The problem was that the ship's counselor was neither his 
nor Harry's favorite senior officer.  Chakotay wouldn't send Harry to 
that officious, sentimental fool.

When he got back to his ready room, he sent a request to Starfleet 
Command.